


Alone In The Coldest Dark

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (only Ron though), Alternate Universe - Demons, Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Second Person, Scared Draco Malfoy, Soul Selling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: One of these days, you are finally going to do it. You are going to say the words, take that last step.Hopefully, it won't be too late.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 28





	Alone In The Coldest Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a counter part to my [ Demon Draco fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913818), thinking it would be something similar. It's not. I'm still very happy with it, first time I tried anything in second person! 
> 
> Thank you at my wonderful beta reader randoyoyo, for reading this and liking it enough to convince me to post it! 
> 
> Alone in the coldest dark,  
> a fire is a smiling friend  
> walking out of the shadows.  
> \- Atticus

The motions come without thinking, mechanical, second nature by now. It takes surprisingly little to summon a demon.

The chalk isn’t the original one, long since used up and often replaced, worryingly small in your hand. The rug is so used to being raised and curled up, it does most of the work by itself the moment you lift the heavy wards and open the door. The candles, too, have been replaced often since you first thought of summoning a demon. 

Not much is needed, but you never once took the final step. 

Your eyes are blurry, tears you refuse to let fall shrouding your vision but not halting your hand. You have drawn the circle more often than you combed your hair lately. You could draw it blinded and hung from the ceiling. (You ignore the nausea threatening to overcome you at the realisation that you might just as easily _be_ blinded and hanging from the ceiling right now.) 

Drawing the circle doesn’t take longer because you can hardly see, it takes longer because you can’t stop shaking. You thought about lighting the candles early, chasing the cold out of the small space, but this shaking is not produced by cold, can’t be cured with a few candles. It would only waste precious wax. 

The candles already hover where they are supposed to be, every single one of them exact, not one out of place. 

You know the spell by heart, can feel the words and their power churning under your skin. It’s borrowed magic, not yours, coming at a high price, tormenting and calling for you. 

With a flick of your wrist, the candles flare and awaken. 

This is how far you have come, where you hesitate, paralysed. 

The house is silent around you, waiting, anticipation high in the air. 

Dust dances over the candles, settles on the meticulously drawn lines of the circle. 

The scene is all too familiar to you. 

You don’t have much time left. It’s a miracle you got as much as you got, you can’t waste it. And yet, at every unsupervised minute you find yourself here, circle drawn, spell on your lips, candles burning. And all you do is watch the wax fall, watch time pass. 

A scream drifts up from the parlour. High — a woman then. She is agony, insufferable pains contorting her body. 

It’s horrifying how much feeling can be conveyed in desperate noises, how different the amount of hope in them, of defiance. The woman doesn’t have any hope left; no pride, no dignity, running on nothing but the bare bones and a single minded determination not to break. 

It might be your mother.

You close your eyes. 

You try to close your mind, too, build a shield the pain cannot penetrate. It’s useless, it always is, the scream piercing the feeble boundary without any effort. 

The scream changes, something breaks. _She_ breaks. You can feel it through the entire house, feel it flinch, feel it shift. 

It’s not silent, far from it, but _she_ left. The screams are empty, monotone. Boring. They are going to stop soon. Dispose of the body, no longer of use. 

They will call for you soon. 

You could have saved her, could have gotten her out of here. Instead you stood here, all the tools in the palm of your hand and watching the dust dance. 

You let her die. 

The screams stop. They will need someone to get rid of the body, already moved on to their next victim. 

It’s now or never, wait for the next moment, risk your father at the end of a wand, your mother (if she isn’t dead yet). 

You pick up the book. You know the words, don’t need the book, but you clutch at it like a lifeline anyway. 

Slowly, you form the incantation, voice rough from disuse, feeling miles away from the situation. 

You don’t see the words, don’t hear them, have no idea what you are saying. 

Nothing happens. 

The candles burn, the dust dances, the book is heavy in your hands and _nothing happens_. 

_This_ is what you have been afraid of? What you based all your hopes on? 

You thought you found a way out, to get your parents to safety, _end this_. 

Rage builds up in you, overtakes the cold emptiness and lights a fire you forgot you have. 

This is not what was promised. _Unimaginable powers_ , an invincible servant bound to you and only you. Your only escape. 

This, the unfulfilled silence, the empty room, it’s more than disappointing. It’s your death-sentence. It means you will die here, will watch your parents be tortured until they beg for death, will be even less than the skeletons of themselves they are right now. 

And it’s all _your_ fault, for not killing Dumbledore, for placing their fate on a musty old book, for not getting out the words early enough to find a new hope. All for some _pathetic, useless, futile —_

“Careful, no need to be rude.” You freeze. The voice is amused, sliding around you and pressing against your mind, but danger is lurking just a few steps further. 

“If you are done _insulting_ me now, I would like to get on with this. You really couldn’t have chosen a smaller room, could you?” The demon is nothing like you expected, much more human than any of the illustrations. He is covered in freckles, dancing over his skin like burning stars, red hair falling into his eyes and a cruel twist to his lips. 

He is _there_ like nothing else is lately, colours vibrant, magic thrumming through the air, calling you, pulling you closer like a moth to the flame. His smell surrounds you, something deep, something warm, something scorched, ever-changing, shifting in subtle nuances that don’t allow you to capture it. His voice is like honey, sweet and full, a lie you want to believe in, trickling into your mind and fusing your thoughts together, cloying. 

He takes all the fire his absence lighted up, consuming you without even stepping out of the circle that was meant to protect you. 

You weren’t prepared for this. You don’t know how to handle this. But you do know what you want, what you called him for. 

“I want you to save my parents. I want them to have a happy life, somewhere far away, where they can’t be found by _him_.” Your voice doesn’t tremble. An accomplishment, however small. 

The demon smiles at you, all tooth, no warmth. “Isn’t that _precious_ , want to save mummy and daddy, do you? You want me to give them a nice little house somewhere, let them recover from the horrors they lived through here. How _touching_.” 

The demon is mocking you, you are well aware, but he also has a good point. “Erase their memories. Delete every notion of what happened here, of anything connecting them to this time. Make sure they never want to come here, but take away the horror impressed on their minds.” 

“You are aware that that includes _you_?” The realisation hits you like a punch to the gut, makes you stumble back from the sheer magnitude of it. 

The demon is laughing, the cruel sound echoing in your skull, growing louder and louder. It fuels you, gives you back some of the fire he took, gives you something to defy. 

“Yes, delete any memory of me too, then.” That stops the demon, cuts the laugh right in half. 

He cocks his head, studies you like you said something he didn’t expect, something _interesting_ he wants to study. 

“Just make sure they are safe, _happy_ , and will never return to this place.” He doesn’t mock you this time, still looking at you like he is really _seeing_ you. You do your best not to let your fear show, your exhaustion. 

“And why would I do that? What do _I_ get in return?” It’s not really a question, there is only one payment demons accept — souls. The only room to debate is over _when_ they get the soul, how much time anyone stupid or desperate enough to make a deal with a demon gets to enjoy the good part of it, the goad. 

You don’t have anything to live for, nothing left for you to stay here for. 

“My soul, immediately, if you so wish.” If the demon looked interested before, he is fascinated now. He leans as close to the border as possible, sniffing the air as if he could get a taste of your soul like this. And maybe he can, you spent enough of your worst moments here to have left an imprint. 

“You aren’t boring, I’ll give you that. Desperate, but they all are. But there is so much more, guilt, need for approval — I accept your soul.” It’s unsettling, how the demon knows all this, knows just the right buttons to press to make you flinch. 

Suspecting the demon is powerful and having it blatantly thrown into your face are two very different things. 

But you almost got what you wanted, you won’t back down now, won’t make any mistakes now. “And you will save my parents, secure them long and happy lives?” 

The demon nods, distracted, waving it off. “Yes, yes I do. Now come here, give yourself to me, seal the deal.” 

There is a knock at the door, sharp and impatient, calling for you. You flinch. You were _so close_ — the demon snaps his fingers, silences the knock and stops the voice. The smile he gives you is almost warm, granting you a favour when he didn’t have to, showing you kindness. 

He still hasn’t moved though, standing with his arms open for you, waiting for you to walk into his trap. And you will go, of free will and open-eyed. 

The closer you get to the demon, the stronger the allure gets, the pull. You take several steps without even noticing, focused on the countless freckles, the soft lips, the dishevelled hair. 

“I don’t even know your name.” It wasn’t a complaint, not really. You would have paid the price anyway, name or no name, but being so close to him, close enough to feel his heat, standing in the eye of the maelstrom — it feels more intimate, important. 

“It’s Ron.” You are face to face now, almost kissing, Ron’s name whispered in the space between like either absolution or damnation. You can’t tell, you don’t care. 

“I’m Draco.” It’s the last thing you say, before Ron bends down, taking your breath, taking your soul. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are very much aprpeciated!  
> If you liked this fic, you can [reblog it on Tumblr](https://glitteringvoids.tumblr.com/post/190180389403/alone-in-the-coldest-dark)


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